The Magic of Arthur
by soulback
Summary: He can feel it in his fingertips, in the quivering of his jaw. Arthur has magic.


At first it's just little things.

When he dresses, his armour feels different – lighter, but stronger. It makes his skin tingle, as if he could do anything in the world, and when he grasps the hilt of his sword his hand positively burns with energy. It _sings_. Arthur sneaks a glance at Merlin to see if he's noticed, but Merlin doesn't stop jabbering on about something Gaius said as he adjusts the fastenings on Arthur's cloak.

A gash on Arthur's forearm heals remarkably quickly.

"Did you put honey on this?" Arthur asks, running his finger along the scar.

"Yes, Sire."

"Just honey?"

"Of course, Sire." Merlin helps Arthur into his jacket. "Is something the matter?"

"No." Arthur shrugs his shoulders and smooths down the sleeves of his shirt. "Nothing at all."

His bathwater stays hot. Arthur notices because there's nothing he looks forward to so much as his weekly bath, and he hates having to get out too soon. Merlin approaches the bath carrying a pile of towels.

"Not yet," says Arthur. The steam sweats his face.

The knights dabble in archery and Arthur always hits his mark.

"Another one, Sire!" calls out Merlin, rushing to fetch the fallen bird. "That's six today. There'll be none left."

"You've got a bit of magic up your sleeve," says Gwaine, nudging Arthur genially. Arthur frowns.

He wants to tell Gwen. He considers it. He should, really; they have no secrets, and it would amuse her. She'd laugh and smile at him in that way that makes him blush. But he finds that when they're alone together, he doesn't want to tell her. It doesn't _mean _anything, it's just - there's no harm in not telling her, either. He's just having a run of good luck. So he says nothing.

The feeling grows.

Sometimes Arthur catches himself staring at the curtains fluttering across his window in the pre-dawn light. He wills the energy to flow through his veins; wills the curtains to _do something_ – but the feeling only comes at the most inconvenient time, when Merlin clatters into the room with his breakfast in one hand, and opens the curtains with the other. Arthur has to pretend that he's only just woken up and hasn't been staring at the curtains for the better part of the hour, trying to make them do what Merlin's just done in the blink of an eye.

It gets at him, the feeling. It starts to makes him uneasy, puts him on edge. Scares him a little, even. He wonders if this is how Morgana felt, when she – he wonders if he's going mad.

But deeper than all that, so deep that Arthur can hardly admit it to himself, he thinks that if, just if, _even if_, this is – he still doesn't want to let the feeling go.

Eventually Arthur decides he has to do something about this or he actually will go mad; so one morning after ordering Merlin to muck out the stables, Arthur knocks on Gaius' door.

"Sire! Come in." Gaius bows low.

Arthur enters the small room, cluttered floor to ceiling with Gaius' and Merlin's things – books, bottles, pots and jars, their work bench, Gaius' bed, bubbling potions - and there it is, a slight tingling on his fingertips and a quivering in his jaw. He closes his eyes.

"Is something troubling you, Sire?" Gaius gestures for Arthur to sit.

Arthur paces the room instead, runs his hand across the wooden door that leads to Merlin's room. When he turns back to Gaius, he is desperate.

"I don't know – what is happening to me. I've been seeing – and hearing – feeling – I think I have – " and Arthur holds his hands up by way of explanation.

Gaius leads him firmly to the chair.

"You think you have magic."

Arthur nearly chokes at the word. It sounds so ridiculous when Gaius says it like that, so forthright. "No! Of course not – but – what happened to Morgana, Gaius?"

Gaius sighs, and eases himself onto the bench opposite Arthur.

"You have been working hard and have assumed a great deal of responsibility. You eat less, and sleep little. With all due respect, my lord, I do not think you have magic." Gaius smiles at Arthur fondly over the top of his glasses.

And Gaius is right, of course. Of course he's right. The idea is absurd.

"I'll prepare you a tonic to help relieve your symptoms, Sire," says Gaius.

"Thank you, Gaius."

But when Merlin delivers the little bottle of red liquid to Arthur, Arthur doesn't drink it.

"No time for that now, Merlin." He can hear the blood pound in his ears, like rustling trees from far away lands. "I'm going hunting! Round up the knights."

"The knights won't come with you, Sire," says Merlin, glancing out the window.

"What?" Arthur spins around.

"They say – that is, I mean – you always catch everything first."

"That's absurd." Arthur coughs and tries to look hurt.

"It's true, though."

"Well – I'll go alone, then. Come on, Merlin."

In the first day Arthur single-handedly takes down a bear.

"Leave it!" he says, waving his hand dismissively. "There's plenty more where that came from."

If this is magic, thinks Arthur, humming tunelessly as they gallop through the forest, then magic is a Rather Good Thing. Everything he touches turns to gold.

That night, Arthur thinks he hears voices, whispering ancient words he doesn't understand; sees little flickers of flame, flashes of gold. He sits, heart pounding – but the forest is still, except for the sound of Merlin snoring across the charred remains of the fire.

Sometimes he feels it as a shiver running down his neck. At other times, his lungs ache with it. He wishes he knew how to use it, how to control it; how to get it out of him; even when he so desperately wants to hold it tight against himself.

They ride for three days and Arthur's heart throbs. Something is going to happen. It's in every fibre of his body. He can hardly hear the clip clop of Merlin's horse behind him for the sound of magic in his mind, shimmering and bright.

"We've passed five deer, two wild boar, and a hornets nest," calls out Merlin. "What are we looking for anyway?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"You don't know, do you?"

Arthur can feel Merlin grinning behind him. He grits his teeth. He doesn't _know_ what he's looking for, but he knows it's here, somewhere, and getting closer. It's been calling him.

"I think we should go back," says Merlin.

"You what?"

"I don't like the feel of this place," whispers Merlin, drawing his horse close to Arthur's. The sky is dark and the trees aren't peaceful.

"Just once, Merlin, do you think you could not be such a – "

The wind changes, and they are under attack. Arthur barely hast time to wonder why he didn't hear the hoard coming as he swings his sword, killing two men with one blow.

"Arthur!"

Arthur whirls around. Merlin is no longer on his horse. Any thought of magic evaporates as Arthur's lungs turn to lead and he fights valiantly against impossible odds, now on his feet as his horse tumbles beneath him.

"Where have they even come from?" Arthur rallies his strength as the faceless rabble keep appearing and Arthur just prays Merlin hasn't –

- and then up on the ridge a pale figure walks, long black hair twisting in the branches.

"Is this what you're looking for, Arthur Pendragon?"

Arthur knows he is dead, as a blade pierces his back and he slips out of consciousness. The hard ground cradles his fall.

As the world goes grey and the blood trickles from his mouth, he thinks he sees his mother, a vision in light; her eyes call to him and her tears wet his cheek, as she presses her hands to his shoulder and back, to his open wound. She whispers words into his pain and smooths back his hair.

"Where are you going?" Arthur reaches out

"I'm not going anywhere," she says, as her body fades into the light.

"Don't leave me."

"You're not finished yet," she says, and smiles. "I'll be here, when you need me."

"I want to come with you – "

"Arthur, you great clotpole, you're not done and that's final."

"Don't – don't leave –"

"_Arthur_."

It is a warmth he will never forget as his eyes flutter open and he takes a ragged, gasping breath. The forest smells of blood and the trees are shaking but it is quiet. Arthur sees Merlin, dopey and grinning like an idiot, his face wet.

"Have you been crying, Merlin?" His voice is faint.

"No, clot pole." Merlin swipes a hand across his cheeks. His fingers are bony and his nails are dirty.

"I was dead," breathes Arthur, struggling to his knees. "I saw – my mother, I think it was her; I saw the light, I saw – " Arthur holds his hands before him, terrified. "Merlin, I think – Merlin, I have magic."

Merlin takes Arthur's icy hands in his own, warm and alive. "No, Arthur." And Merlin smiles sadly as his eyes turn gold and Arthur understands.


End file.
